


A Different Kind of Rack

by Davechicken



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: And everything is fully consensual, BDSM, Established Relationship, I hate tags please just read if you like this kind of thing, M/M, Negotiated kink, Some violent imagery but nothing harmful happens, Switch Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-18 13:05:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19335097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Getting angry hasn't really fixed things before. When Aziraphale has plans and Crowley doesn't like them, they have to find a new way to compromise.TLDR: In which an angel and a demon realise that talking is better than arguing.





	1. Anger

Crowley was annoyed. Angry, even. It was not a state of mind he enjoyed being in, and he avoided it at almost all costs. He could go with peeved. Put out. Even, maybe, as far as petulant. All good words for the level of irritation that you’d spit out, like when you’d been cut up on a roundabout by a moron whose car was significantly less expensive than yours, and who would inevitably whine that the person behind was liable, even as they started to rub their neck and hear ‘have you been in an accident that wasn’t your fault’ echoing in their skulls.

But instead, he was angry. He aimed for a casual disinterest (at least superficially), with an underlying tone of smugness (not ‘happiness’ or ‘contentment’, there had to be the tiniest bit of superiority and spite for him to sleep at nights). Instead, he stormed up the stairs (angry that his feet didn’t make enough noise to telegraph his mood), opened the door to the flat, and then glared at the angel beaming beatifically up at him from the sofa.

“What are you doing here?” he snapped. Aziraphale had that – whatsit – thing he said he’d be out of town for. After learning it meant he’d be gone, Crowley had promptly turned off the connecting part between his ears and his brain. 

“It’s lovely to see you, too,” was the too-chipper response. “I thought I’d surprise you.”

“I’m surprised.”

“Clearly.”

He was now, worryingly, even more angry. 

He should be pleased that Aziraphale was here. (His bad mood was in no way related to being left alone for a long weekend, absolutely not. And if it had been, surely he should feel relieved and rejoice at the Second Coming of the angel. Not doubly irked and sullen that now his perfectly good sulk didn’t have a reason, and should somehow dissipate without being fully lived through.)

“...shall I make us a pot of tea?” Aziraphale offered.

Crowley shrugged. He was trying to work through rather a lot of things at once. Things he had not, really, had the need to before. 

Their new Arrangement was just that: new. And the years of wandering around in lazy orbits that occasionally did a Halley and brought them close enough together for him to see the blaze of his wake had morphed into... well. What he’d thought was a binary orbit. Only to find that angels thought it was perfectly fine to bugger off when they wanted to and not ask permission or promise to call or look in the slightest bit like they would feel sad about being away from you.

(Shit.)

“Crowley?”

Oh, yeah. He could only really freeze time for mortals. It didn’t work on Aziraphale, they just ended up in a bubble of contemplation together. Crowley wished he had some way to just... wind back fifteen minutes. Or fifteen hundred years. Or something.

“Sure. Don’t see why not.”

“Crowley, my good fellow—“

He tried so, so hard not to wince at the g-word. But it must have shown, all the same. His car keys were pressed so hard into his palm that he could feel every castle in the surface. It wasn’t yet pain, but it was starting to make his fingers numb. 

“...I thought you would be pleased? You seemed to be so...”

“What?” he challenged. “You sacked off your jolly without me because you were worried I’d chew up the furniture like some abandoned hellhound?”

“...did I make a mistake?”

No, I did. His skin was crawling. Itching. Burning. His tongue jammed between his molars as he fought to work out what to do next. Part of him wanted to smash the stupid, concerned expression off his face. He was not pathetic! He did not need babysitting! He was perfectly fine on his own! He didn’t need Aziraphale – not – not _all_ the time. He wasn’t afr—he was fine. 

And angry.

“I just had a bad day, is all,” he lied. 

“Can I help?”

He was not really a violent demon. Of course, he’d enjoyed some of the wars, back when it was exhilarating and got the blood pumping. It had been something to do while the Humans invented things like hygiene and decent entertainment. He’d never been the kind for random acts of senseless violence (no art, no meaning, no – no – beauty), more interested in the psychological elements. More likely to trip and trap than engage in anything head on.

But something about Aziraphale – some days – had his mind going to awful places. Had him slamming the angel into walls, and not sure if he wanted to kiss or bite those soft lips. Consumed by images he didn’t want of those soft, pure wings pulled back into a rictus of pain. Thoughts of him crying out in agony, begging for mercy. Beautiful eyes looking up at him as he – or maybe someone else – no. No! If anyone else hurt His Angel, Crowley would forget any restraint he might ever have and rip their viscera out and feed it to them. If they didn’t have any, he’d make some, just for that reason. 

His hands were on the angel’s waistcoat, his face too close to focus straight. His head was swimming, rage and jealousy and possessive fear and shame that he was like this. That he wanted – even on any level at all – to hurt him. 

Soft fingertips touched the backs of his hands, and the angel he was cowing into the couch didn’t look afraid. He looked... sorrowed. He looked like he was overflowing with holy compassion and understanding, and he wasn’t allowed to do that, and Crowley shunted him harder.

“Stop it!”

“Stop what?”

“You know what! Just – just stop it!”

“I don’t know, but I suspect.” Aziraphale wasn’t resisting, and the touches moved to the backs of his wrists. “What do you need?”

To make sense of it. To make the rage go away. To smash your pretty face in until you spit blood and teeth and taste the ground like I’ve crawled across for millennia. To pull you down to my level. To prove I can’t. To make you hate me. To – to – all sorts of things. But none of them right.

Crowley let out an inarticulate grunt of utter dismay. He shoved again. Begging without words.

“It’s alright. Whatever it is, it’s alright.”

“No it BLOODY ISN’T.” He found his voice again, and it was filled with thunder and blood. “I want to hurt you.”

“Do you?”

“Yes! I – I don’t know!”

“Have you ever hurt me before?”

Crowley pulled back, some of the wind removed from his sail. His hands stayed in place, but some of the threat dissipated. Had he? Define: ‘hurt’. Physically, very little, if any. Emotionally? His eyes roved across Aziraphale’s face, looking for the answer.

“Obviously,” he drawled, though he wasn’t convinced that was what Aziraphale thought.

“Not truly.”

“Don’t be bloody daft.”

“Name one time.”

They’d had plenty of arguments. Plenty of disagreements. Mostly it had been Crowley annoyed that Aziraphale wouldn’t agree to something, or occasionally a sticking point they hadn’t found a middle ground on. He ran his eyes through time, looking for anything he could categorically identify, but—

“See,” Aziraphale said, and his fingers curled around the demon’s wrists. “It’s I who have hurt you.”

“Yeah, but I’m sure I’ve pissed you off.”

“Frustrated me, yes. But hurt me? Not... really. And if you have, I’ve forgiven you.”

“Well, you’re not allowed!”

“I’m not?”

“No! Because – because I’m a _demon_ and I’m very naughty and also angry and I really want to smash your head in right now.”

“You do?”

Yes. No. Maybe. It was a mess of conflicting drives, and Crowley didn’t like it when he felt conflicted. He might go ahead and do the Wrong (Right?) thing. And it meant his world wasn’t secure and solid. And it meant he was thinking awful things and wanting those things about someone he really cared quite a lot about. And that meant he really was terrible and sinful and it was good that God kicked him out, because angels didn’t go around fantasising about biting angels’ mouths bloody and pulling their hair until they cried. 

And he cared about Aziraphale. Really, truly did. In ways that were terrifying and awesome, in the original sense. In a way that filled him up to the edges and overspilled. In ways that made him occupy his thoughts all day, and made him think about him at random times. Like when he saw a particularly heavy thunderstorm, and he thought about how Aziraphale had instinctively sheltered him, right from the start. Or he saw a very nice cake and he couldn’t help but think how the angel would love it (but also he’d identify any flaws that he knew Aziraphale would notice but be too polite to mention). He’d hear a joke and want to tell him. He’d spot some awful fashion and wonder if he’d see that on him in a few hundred years. He’d hear music as he walked past a bar and the lyrics would make him think of—

Oh, bugger. It was all so ridiculously obvious. He was so utterly enamoured with him that now he hated him because he was everywhere in Crowley’s head and it was awful. Awful! He made him want to be around him! To – to do nice things because _Aziraphale would_. To just be near him because if he wasn’t, then he didn’t feel right, and he was worried something might happen to him.

Why did he have to love him this damn much? Couldn’t it just be – you know – normal levels of attraction and affection? Not the kind that made him fear for his immortal lack of soul?

“I HATE you.”

He was not greeted with surprise, or anger, or disappointment. 

“Don’t you get it? I hate you. I hate your stupid, feathery ass. And I want to – I want to drag you by the halo into Hell. And I want to ruin you, and destroy you, and make it so no one else can love you but me. And I want to make it _hurt_ so you know how I **feel**.”

He shoved hard, and tried to back off. Hands kept hold of his wrists, and as he struggled, they tried to slide palm-to-palm instead. 

“You don’t,” Aziraphale said, full of compassion and love that he was, in no way, allowed to provoke. “Yes, you may have encouraged some less-than divine activities, but I don’t believe you ever wanted me to Fall.”

“It’s a long plan. Ineffable.”

“Crowley.”

“I’m – I’m the serpent, remember! It’s what I do. Tempt people. Trick them. Make them – make them Fall. Disobey.”

“And look how that worked out for the Humans.”

Not bloody fair. Crowley tried again to pull back, and he couldn’t. Aziraphale was an unmoveable force. A solid, perfectly balanced fulcrum. A star he was orbiting, impossible to escape. Fear raised his shackles, and he whined in annoyance. 

“Crowley. Can you – can you tell me what I did wrong? You were happy, only days ago. I want to understand.”

So did he. “Please. Can’t we just... can’t we just pretend this never happened?” Like so many things.

“No. I want to make sure you are happy. I want to understand how I can prevent you from feeling like this.”

Maybe not have him standing like a naughty child, Crowley thought? He tugged again, and this time the angel let him go. But his eyes pleaded with him to stay. Crowley felt very much like running away, vanishing into the ether, maybe laughing hysterically as he did. The violence was gone, but the thudding in his chest was not. He sat at the angel’s encouraging, but he did so with his arms folded over his chest and a glare over his glasses to show he wasn’t really obeying properly.

“Are you upset that I didn’t... go as I said I would?”

“No.”

“Are you upset that I... said I would?”

“ **No**.” Yes. 

“You know, I changed my mind because I didn’t want to. I thought I did, until I was about to leave. And then I thought I would rather you came with me, but that you would find it dreadfully dull.”

“So now I’m cramping your style?”

A patient (mostly) sigh. “I wanted to spend time with you. I thought, if you didn’t want to come, then I would change my plans. Was that wrong?”

Fuck. Fucking. Fucking. FUCK. “No! I don’t know – I – you were... going to be gone and I was – I was angry and then I thought you should be gone and then I hated you and wanted to smash your face in.”

Aziraphale chuckled, which was not the appropriate response to finding out that your partner was imagining violent acts because you wanted to go to some nerdy shit without them. 

“It isn’t funny, angel. Domestic violence isn’t anything to laugh about.”

“Crowley, my dear heart. You didn’t hurt me. I don’t believe you would have, ever, either. You can hardly blame yourself for having thoughts. Thoughts aren’t wrong. Actions are wrong.”

“Thinking about punching you and kicking you and pulling your wings out and strangling you with a tinsel halo? Pretty sure those are bad.”

“You think I haven’t thought about things like that, occasionally?”

“...you’re an angel, angel.”

“And you frustrate me at times. Although mostly I think about bending you over my knee, and, ah, well. More... I suspect you would consider it ‘Victorian’ corporal punishment than your Mixed Martial Arts.”

Aziraphale thought about spanking him when he was annoyed? Crowley snorted in amused shock and relief. It was so utterly him, and – weirdly – the idea was... not unpleasant. 

“Would I have to wear a flat cap and call you ‘Sir’?” he asked, sliding the arch of one foot along the ankle of his other. 

“Crowley!”

“What! You just told me you thought about it.”

“...well, yes, but—“

“It’s not a real thought, then.” He said it calmly, and – hmm. Some of his own temper had dissipated at the angel’s confession. 

“It was... an idle thought. But it – well I’m not Madam Tracey, but I could... entertain things. If you think it would help you.”

“I’d only want to do it, if you did, too.” It should surprise him to be so egalitarian, but it was true. It wouldn’t truly be enjoyable if Aziraphale had no interest. Conflicted interest was fine: two parts of him pulling in opposite directions was a delicious – and natural – tension. But outright indifference or disliking would have been the terminus of the train of thought.

“Is that why you were... tetchy?”

Shit. Yeah, there was that whole thing. “You know why I was.”

“Would it help if I apologised for assuming you wouldn’t want to come, and then presuming you’d be happy with me just cancelling without warning?” He looked so piteously hopeful, and repentant, that it was painful to watch. 

They’d both just been idiots. Again. It was kind of their leitmotif, really. 

“I didn’t want to come to your stu—“ The dismissive response was half-way out of his mouth before he noticed what was happening. He hadn’t wanted to go do the thing. But maybe he could have gone with him for the trip and lounged around doing more interesting things during the boring things. And then they could have met up again after. 

“I can’t work out which of us deserves the spanking.” Aziraphale’s eyes twinkled, a little sadly. “Me, for not thinking about you. Or you, for acting like a little brat about it.”

“We could take it in turns.” His head cocked. “Isn’t it a bit... kinky for you?”

“More so than carnally knowing and emotionally bonding with my adversary? Making him tea, and defying Heaven and Hell with him?”

“When you put it that way.” His tongue traced the tower blocks of his teeth, fighting the rising tides pulling him both ways. It wasn’t really traditional, for as much as he knew about such things. (And, being a demon, it was something that he did know about.) You generally went one way or the other. But when had they ever been traditional?

The thought of Aziraphale punishing him, scolding him for being such a terrible sinner... he probably wouldn’t agree to wear a dog collar, but then – priests came after his own Fall. It was something much more atavistic for him. More... old testament. He tried to lock up the insidious voice that said it wouldn’t undo anything for Aziraphale to reprimand and forgive him. Or – nothing beyond the two of them. But he didn’t really want anyone else’s compassion and understanding. It was only really this angel’s opinion that mattered.

The other image – closer to his rage-fuelled ones... Aziraphale wounded, or frayed. Hurting. Suffering. Crowley free to take out his frustrations. Knowing that...

“I... have to ask,” he said, as breezily as a very large rock trying to pass as a cloud. “I... know what’s in it for me. But...”

“You want to make sure it’s... a truly mutual arrangement.”

He nodded. 

The other being became very interested in the fabric stretched over his knee. He was not as suave as he liked to pretend he was. (Neither of them were.) “To... experience... something like you did, I suppose. To... understand you better.”

Aziraphale had always been somewhat sickly fascinated by the Fall, by damnation and Hell. He usually curbed his tongue, but sometimes it wound looser than others. He’d originally thought it had just been some morbid curiosity, but maybe it was empathetic, too. His angel so desperate to know what it would feel like to sin. To be punished. To be forgiven... and of course, so willing to offer that forgiveness in return. 

It was incredibly blasphemous. Priests and their confessionals and sold indulgences were one thing, but an angel choosing to... to play in bed at redemption and penance? To mix something so sacred with something so profane? 

Bloody Hell. The idea of it made his spine tingle. Aziraphale being... accepting of his... of things he’d tried so hard to keep to himself. Even if he hadn’t wanted to Talk about it, just... you know. Slam him into things until either the angel surrendered, or fought back hard enough to make Crowley do it first. But that likely would have lead to them both being frustrated and confused and talking about it anyway. And now he had the green light to try things. 

“How do we do this?” he croaked. 

“Perhaps not when you are so... raw to begin with? Though if you’d like to take some of that aggression into the bedroom, I’m persuadable.”

“You mean: easily seduced into sin?”

“Only when it is you.”

Crowley’s lips twisted in delight. “I still should punish you for trying to run away from me. Even if it was for a weekend.”

“Allow me to make amends to you.” Long lashes, a slight pout, and a tilted head in suppliant submission. 

H—no, it was right. Holy shit. Just that little moment of humility was enough to make his mouth go drier than the Red Sea mid-part. 

“If you were truly sorry for hurting my feelings, you’d be on your knees already. _Angel_.” 

The power he held... an angel of the Lord dropped gracefully (sinfully, wickedly, deliciously) to his knees, holding the position between Crowley’s knees. One leg was still bent over the other, which concealed the fact he’d suddenly erected his own monument to their accord right in his own front garden. 

“My love, please forgive me. I was wrong to think I knew what you—“

Could he? Should he? Crowley back-handed the angel across the jaw, making sure the connection was more shock than sting. A show of power, and no harm at all. He waited to see if Aziraphale reacted negatively or not, reading the lines of his shoulders and the planes of his face. 

“I didn’t say you could speak. You ask for permission. Do you understand?”

Without rules on if it was, or wasn’t permitted to answer a direct question out loud... his angel floundered for a moment. That part was harder on him than the physical reprimand: orders that weren’t understood. 

He might... have done that deliberately. Tying his angel in the mess of confusion. What he thought, versus what he thought he should think. His jaw rocked counterpoint to the blow and back, as he displayed a range of emotions so sharply that Crowley could taste them. Frustration, regret, annoyance, fear, longing... he wanted to do the right thing, but he was also ready to fight his own corner. To point out that he couldn’t obey what he didn’t understand. To snap and to snipe and to be – well – Aziraphale. Angel of Doing What He Was Sure Was Right, Damned What You Thought.

Their eyes locked as they worked through it together, and Crowley could see more of what his angel needed from him. Why he hadn’t baulked from the idea. Why he’d been... drawn to the danger and the rough play. He was testing his limits, rebelling more blatantly than Crowley ever had. And he was frustrated by the lack of restraints over him. 

He was looking for someone to tell him ‘no’. 

And he was looking at a demon to set him boundaries. Why? Because he trusted him. Trusted him in ways he hadn’t trusted an archangel, though he wasn’t sure if Aziraphale equated that with Her. Still, he was Aziraphale’s safe place. His place to disobey, to demand, and to look for control. 

“You ask for permission aloud. If it is refused, you do not argue. You answer questions posed to you directly, either aloud or non-verbally. You only speak out of turn, without asking, if you want this to end. Which includes because you need it to.”

Aziraphale rolled through the instructions, memorising them, analysing them, internalising them. It slowly smoothed his brow of the most of his worry, and he nodded.

“Do you understand the rules?”

“Yes... Sir.” The angel read his face again, and it wasn’t a case of misbehaving with the honorific. He was genuinely trying to be respectful, it seemed. Echoing back his earlier term.

Crowley felt that was in-keeping in the spirit of things. After all, they should really have discussed it beforehand. Sir. An angel, kneeling, genuflecting, ready to surrender control and offer him respect. But instead of the kinky, lewd pleasure of it... Crowley felt something more complicated and broadening inside. Protectiveness. He wanted to take care of him. To help him with this urge, not to hurt him and control him for the sake of it. He wanted to soothe the angel’s worries, and scratch whatever itch caused him to kneel in the first place. Whatever thing had driven him to a demon’s – this demon’s – arms and bed and heart. 

“Good,” he praised, and cupped the stung cheek instead. “You don’t get forgiven automatically. It wouldn’t mean anything, then, would it?”

Hmm. Perhaps this role play went a little further than he should have thought it through, but they were committed to it, now, and Aziraphale looked so bloody devoted, leaning into his touch, that he couldn’t resist him a damn thing. 

“I suppose not, Sir.”

Suppose not. Hardly agreeing and submitting, but it was honest. He ran his thumb across the angel’s lower lip, tugging at it, seeing the way those eyes fluttered again. The colour staining his cheeks like the sunlight over open fields. 

It was truly the most tempting thing Crowley had ever seen. This powerful, graceful, beautiful, wilful and fierce creature, willingly resting in front of him. Hands by his sides, fists and relaxed, every reaction pulled to the surface and laid bare for him. 

It was humbling. And worse, he wasn’t sure he’d be capable of the same openness, the same sincerity, honesty, and vulnerability. It wasn’t just the position, it was the promise he made when their eyes met. The silent request, and offering. 

“May I speak?”

He’d been staring. Staring into infinity. His voice was a little raspy when he said: “Yes. You may.”

“I am sorry, Crowley. It was thoughtless of me. And it hurts me that I caused you pain. Please. Tell me how to – how... to earn your trust once more?”

Crowley knew he’d let Aziraphale lead him on for thousands of years and not be able to resist him. Earn his trust? He already had it. Aziraphale was his one constant. His one pole star. The only place he could ever rely on his heart finding again. 

“You already have it.”

“I th—“ the words died in his mouth, as Aziraphale remembered his role, his place.

“Go on.”

“I thought you were supposed to punish me.”

“Do... you need that?”

The eyes slitted to one side. Considering. “I don’t know. But. I think I _want_ it.”

Oh, his beautiful bird. That... was more delicious than anything he could ever have tempted anyone with. Crowley was glad he had Fallen, because he knew, now, that this couldn’t be taken from him. That even broken as he was, he could feel the depth of desire and affection that made his whole body sing. 

He knotted fingers into those soft curls, pulling them until he heard the smallest whuff of protest. Yanking backwards, making his angel nearly fold in half towards his ankles. Aziraphale’s hands clawed the air for balance, and then he shoved him so he fell to one side, landing on his wrist. 

“You want to know how wicked you are. How you’re a selfish, gluttonous hedonist. How you crave things just for your own satisfaction. How you want a damned thing to scratch his nails down your spine and bugger your Human body until you think you’ve gone blind.” Oh the words rolled out, and he could see the shame and hunger from his angel now. 

He did want that, even though he’d been covering it over with as much politesse and dignity as he could. But he wanted it. He wanted the visceral sensation. He wanted it just for himself. 

“Crowley...”

“Crawl to the bed. Bend over the edge.”

Aziraphale shuddered, some doubt, but he did as he was told. Crowley watched, his heart breaking as he followed the swaying of his hips. His angel who wanted the parts of love that were greedy, as much as giving. And him... he could be working this to truly torture him, but instead he wanted to do this as a gift. To exorcise these feelings. To let him through and out to the other side, where Aziraphale could see it wasn’t just sex. It was never just sex. Crowley wanted _him_ , and wanted him in ways that were truly non-demonic. Maybe he remembered too much of his angel past, or maybe it was just that you couldn’t help but fall in love with him, but either way... 

He followed, watching as Aziraphale wobbled, thinking about his clothes almost so loudly he could hear. Should he? Shouldn’t he? Crowley snapped them away for him, and then laid a palm resoundingly hard upon well lived-in buttocks, scrunching the soft flesh after he slapped. 

“Oh!”

“I’m going to make it hurt, angel. I’m going to drag you through every. Last. Lustful thought. I’m going to ravage you and make you forget your calling.” 

A little sob said he was on the right track, and an ass lifted higher in mingled shame and need. He slapped again – firmer – and then shoved a thought-slicked finger right inside him. It was still a little too dry, and the angel squirmed and whimpered at it. He was beginning to truly struggle, and Crowley could tell. 

“Yes, Sir. I’m sorry, Sir. I’m – please... whatever you say...”

The babbling was wobbly, his body starting to wrack from the extremes of emotion. Crowley had barely hurt him, barely said a thing. He knew real torture, he knew how to actually flay someone’s mind apart. But he had no intention of doing that, not now. This wasn’t about destruction, except in the sense of washing out the foundation and setting walls anew atop.

“I’m going to fuck you, now.”

Aziraphale nodded, and his knees moved further apart. His wings whispered in the air, fluttering like he was trying to signal his obedience. 

“I’m going to fuck you. But I’m not going to punish you. Or hurt you. No matter how hard my hands are on you, my dick inside you... I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Crowley!”

“I’m not going to do it,” he growled, “...because I love you. I’m going to take you, but because you’re _mine_. And I will take care of you. And I will protect you. And – and I will forgive you.” It felt so oddly resonant to say it, and he heard the little sob from his angel as he went non-verbal in response. 

The hands on his hips kept his lover still as he moved, naked, to mount him. Bent over the bed, clutching at the crumple of sheet over the edges, sobbing in relief and love as he let the demon in. Let him take over, let him set the punishingly fast pace. 

They could last as long as they wanted, but Crowley didn’t want to hurt his heart too much. Not when this was Aziraphale’s (and his) first time doing this. So he rutted in, kissing his neck, murmuring sweet nothings as his body used him fiercely. Thrust home, and found those places that caused the cries of bliss. He bit his angel’s ear, and harshed the words close to his cheek.

“Thank you. I love you. You’re safe with me. I forgive you.” Forgave him. For all those times he’d said ‘no’ to hopeful requests. To all those times he’d reminded Crowley that he was the enemy. Wrong. Bad. Evil. Wicked. Forgave him for his terrible taste in fashion, and for putting too much maple syrup on pancakes. He kissed his neck as he came inside him, and then laid with his weight on his partner’s back. 

“I love you,” Aziraphale whimpered back at him, his own release having found its resolution somewhere along the line. Crowley could feel it in the way the body beneath him was pliant and arching and resting. He was happy, and relieved, and relaxed. 

It was much, much better than the other images. The ones of bloodied teeth and non-specific violence. Aziraphale was humming below him, and Crowley wanted to move him onto the bed, but didn’t want to leave this position at all. Not when his angel was half out of his mind with bliss, and – crying? Possibly crying. Happy tears, but tears nonetheless. 

Eventually, they did climb up on the bed, but Crowley barely let an inch of skin escape his own, curling around him like a demonic onesie. He didn’t want the angel to suffer at all, not as he came back down to Earth. 

“That’s... what you want, from me?” Aziraphale asked, when he could find words again. “That’s the punishment you crave?”

Punishment. Forgiveness. It was all tangled up together. Shame and absolution. Being... being able to let him know how truly wretched he sometimes felt, or needed to feel. It wouldn’t translate precisely, though their circumstances were more similar than Heaven and Hell would ever concede. 

“S-something like.” The stutter, for once, wasn’t serpentine. 

A nose pressed under the curve of his jawline, a wriggle of compassion and an aching sympathy that radiated out from the being of love and some small bastardness in his arms. 

“I already forgave you. So long ago I don’t know when. But if it helps you to... feel it...” Aziraphale kissed his throat, somehow able to reassure him of his own inner strength and capacity to lead, to control, even with a demon’s dick lodged deep inside of him and half-way down from being broken and remade himself. “...anything, my dear,” he concluded. 

Crowley was still afraid. He’d bared enough of himself already, showed his own needs by tending to Aziraphale’s. But that was what it meant to truly be his, he reasoned. To not hold back those things he was ashamed to say, or want, or need. To let him love all of him. 

“I...” A glib response, tripping behind his tongue. Dismiss it, or joke, or pretend he meant no such thing. Hide. Slither away, emotionally. All his defensive drives kicked in at once, and fighting them down, surrendering to show his soft, tender under-belly was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

Crowley took a deep breath. “I... would like that. S-sir.”

More kisses over the flushed skin of the front of his throat, down to his collarbones. No mockery. No hatred or disgust. Nothing but compassion and a worryingly complete understanding of him. Aziraphale, the only creature in all of Creation who was able to destroy him utterly. Unless God decided to drag them apart. 

Even more kisses. Wasn’t he supposed to be the one easing Aziraphale through the after-shocks, the come-down? Instead, he felt as wrung dry as if he’d been the one ordered to his knees and fucked through the mattress. 

“I love you. You’re safe with me. I forgive you.” His own words echoed back at him. 

Maybe it wasn’t selfish, if it meant they both felt as good and afraid as he did now. The cuddling got tighter, closer, and Crowley was sure his blackened Grace had moved, all those years ago, and taken up residence in Aziraphale’s heart. It was the only way to explain how much he cared for him.

Any which way, things had become infinitely more interesting. And it would never be the same again.


	2. Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, Crowley is pretty sure you can't punish someone who doesn't regret what they did.
> 
> And in which, Aziraphale has other things he thinks Crowley needs.

Why had he thought this would work? No, really. Why? A bit of fuzzy handcuffs or a riding crop was one thing. It was a little bit of spice that wasn’t actually needed, considering Aziraphale had taken to indulging himself sexually as enthusiastically as anything else he indulged himself in. His angel was thoroughly debauched in all the right ways, and Crowley was glad he wasn’t mortal, because he was sure he’d be walking bow-legged and chafed for months on end after a single night of their vigorous fun. 

So it wasn’t needed. He wasn’t lacking in the fun department. The angel hadn’t even finished the first half of the Kama Sutra, not to mention the _myriad_ other books he’d amassed on the subject. Sometimes it paid off to have a bookworm for a boyfriend. 

He hadn’t meant to turn their love-life kinky. He’d just been angry one day, and that somehow morphed into him dominating the – fine - _Heck_ out of his lover. He was still sure this was Aziraphale’s plan all along, the conniving little shit. Maybe not the incident itself, but he’d capitalised upon Crowley’s anger, and also the fact that he couldn’t _actually_ hurt him, much as he occasionally fantasised about it. The thought of it was abhorrent to him. 

And Aziraphale had somehow worked some conjugal miracle and turned the water of his rage into the wine of something much, much better. A blissed-out, deeply emotional, utterly satisfied Aziraphale, and a Crowley who had felt closer to his lover than he could ever recall feeling.

But it wouldn’t work the other way around. Not like that. Maybe it would be fun to add a little bit of pain in, but he couldn’t do that other thing. The – the – punishment thing. 

No, not accurate. He _could_ be punished. Hell, he’d spent more of his life being punished than not. And then finding ways to escape said punishment, and find his own normal. Aziraphale could – if he felt like it – beat the very flesh from his bones, and Crowley would stubbornly take it all and wait until he could shrug that skin off and claim he’d wanted it all along.

In order to be forgiven, you actually had to feel sorry. And he didn’t. He was unrepentant. And that was that.

Except, how did you tell your angelic boyfriend that you didn’t need saving, didn’t _want_ saving, and that the gags and blindfolds could just be for fun, and leave the ontological debate outside the bedroom door? 

Bugger.

***

As was traditional, they did not discuss it for some time. Aziraphale was more snuggly than he had been before, which was saying something. He would kiss Crowley’s hair, even as the demon snarked about it and batted him away, despite feeling fuzzy about the attention. He would bring him tea and biscuits over and above his normal feeding drives. And he would sometimes sigh dreamily in a totally ridiculous and adorable, smitten way.

So it was good for him. And perhaps they could do it again like that. It was a little less... exposing to be the one in the hot seat. It had certainly brought them closer together, and made him feel better about his occasionally _darker_ thoughts. 

But not – not – 

“What’s ‘got your goat’?” Aziraphale asked him, over-emphasising the phrase, most likely because he thought it was a cunning allusion to the popular images of the Dark Lord Satan. And because he thought he was funny.

“My goat is successfully grazing the mountainside, looking for salt, and trying to avoid becoming tagine.” His own references were rather more Millennial and memetic. They went, of course, right over his head.

(Aziraphale would review any memes Crowley found particularly funny, but when the blasted angel refused to hold anything more complicated than a pocket calculator without decrying what was wrong with the abacus, it meant he couldn’t really engage in the creation or adaption of them, and Crowley had just resigned himself to dating a prehistoric dinosaur.)

(And his ears were still ringing about the LOL incident, where he’d been lectured for a good month about the state of the English Language.)

“Oh, you know what I meant.”

“Worryingly, I did,” he conceded. 

“Do we need to have an argument before you will agree to discuss things?”

“Arguing is discussing.”

“...my point precisely.” Aziraphale looked rejected, but his expression attempted to prove otherwise. “Would you like to reconsider our Arrangement?”

What? What was – did he – was he wanting – had he done something wrong?

“Oh! Oh, Heavens, Crowley, no! Not like that! I didn’t mean to worry you. I merely thought that you... you were less enamoured with our latest love-sport than you thought you would be.”

Oh, fuck. So he wasn’t trying to break up with him. Crowley’s nails had gouged deep rivulets into the furniture, which he surreptitiously healed. And now he felt like a total shit for even... even doubting him that much, and he coughed as blasé as he could. “Nah. You couldn’t give this up,” he drolled. 

Even if the idea of it had made cold sweat prickle under his hairline, and slide across clammy skin. Aziraphale, not wanting him. Rejecting him again. This all being some cosmic joke. God’s final laugh. Give him just enough hope to crush his heart back into nothing, once and for all. 

No, he was not fighting a panic attack.

“I’m ever so sorry. Crowley, I only meant our... our...” 

Damned creature – blessed, whatever – couldn’t even say it, could he?

“You mean when I slapped your ass and rogered you?”

“Do you have to be so crass?” He primped himself up, nose tilted haughtily. “I meant to say, when we... explored other aspects.”

“Yeah. I believe it’s called sado-masochism, angel. It’ll be in your books. Along with self-flagellation and power exchange and probably some shit you never want to admit to wanting to try. Even if you holy types all love to think you’re in trouble. Something about that rel—“

The look he was given stopped the tirade in its tracks. It just said ‘stop’. ‘No’. And Crowley found his jaw slamming shut over the predictable reel of insults that were always there to slam Aziraphale’s religious... practices. (It wasn’t so much ‘beliefs’ when you bloody knew the Almighty on nearly first-name terms.) 

“We do not have to do anything. Either way. I will still enjoy our times together without that element. But I will not be ashamed of finding it... enlightening. And, dare I say it... reassuring.”

More words bubbled up, desperate to escape. Nasty little things about how of course the angel wanted to be flogged. How God had all Her children hung up with complexes and running around being miserable and hating themselves. He railed inwardly, trying to hide from the fact that he – on some level – wanted it, too.

“I’m not sorry,” he said, instead.

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah. I’m not. You aren’t going to save me, because there’s nothing to save. I’m not going to see the sodding Light. I’m not going to Damascus. I’m not looking for redemption, and I don’t believe I need it.”

“You seem to think a carnal encounter with me could – or, indeed, should – result in you returning to the fold?”

“...s’what you’d want, isn’t it?” Yes. Clearly they only could talk about things when it turned into a spat. Which he’d been trying to avoid. “Save the damned beast with your all-powerful love. Fix him. Put him back in his box. Find something else to obsess over.”

Aziraphale looked – understandably – hurt. Which was Crowley’s intention, whether he would admit it or not. “Get. On. Your. Knees.”

“ _Shan’t_.” He sing-songed it, mockingly, emboldened by the rage he was stoking. Make him angry. Make him break. Make him just as bad as everyone else. Make him Fall. “I didn’t bow and scrape to the Bitch In Charge, I’m not going to—“

A gust of power smacked him right in the sternum, pushing the wind right out of him, stunning him and leaving him wheezing automatically. It bloody _hurt_ , and he hissed in response. Feral, and furious.

“I am not your God, and I don’t intend to be. But you will show me the respect I deserve and have earned.”

Crowley wanted to claw. Rip. Rend. He saw blood, and he smelled his own piss-fear, and it wasn’t just a stupid argument about who did what to whom, not now. It – it was about something much more fundamental, and something much more terrifying. 

“Don’t,” he warned. 

“Tell me to stop – you know how – and I will. Until you do... I will give you what you need, and think you don’t deserve.”

Fucking! No. Crowley wasn’t going to safe-word out of a stupid fight. He jumped to his feet, grabbing the angel and hoisting him upwards. Nose to nose. Breath to breath. Aziraphale didn’t resist, but he didn’t try to over-power him, either.

“You want to tie me up and whip me? Go ahead.” It might even be enjoyable. “You want to call me names, remind me I’m evil, feel free. I already know it, and I’m not ashamed of it.” It was who he was. If being himself meant he wasn’t Good Enough for Her, it was Her loss. He hadn’t set out to be evil. But he wasn’t going to run around breaking his back trying to second-guess an Almighty who did dumb-ass things like make trees and throw tantrums. 

No. _She_ wasn’t allowed here. Not between them. Not when he’d worked so damned hard to throw Her and Heaven and Hell out. When he’d carved this little spot of eternity out. 

This was awful. And he hated it. And he wished he’d never agreed to it. “You want to fuck me, fuck me. You want to make it hurt, make it hurt. But I will. Not. Apologise.”

“I never said you needed to,” Aziraphale pointed out. “You are the one who keeps returning to that. You can say the word – you know how – or you can let me try to help you.”

Crowley let go. And shoved the angel back. And ran out and to his car.

***

Stupid angels. Stupid... forgiving little shits. Not getting angry when they should. Not being holy enough to be Right and not being broken enough to be Wrong. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Crowley slammed on the Bentley’s horn, bleating out a plaintive cry to some pigeons who had roosted near his sulking spot.

He had no idea where he was, just that he’d needed as much distance between himself and Aziraphale as he could bear to make. Before he did something like actually ruin things with a fist, or worse, words. 

He could just have used his safe-word. Ended it once and for all. Admitted it was not his thing. Stopped any conversation in that direction again. 

But he had to be proud, didn’t he? Had to be too mad to utter it. Too angry to admit he’d failed at something, that he couldn’t handle a little contretemps. 

It was Aziraphale, not God. And he was mad at God, not Aziraphale. And it shouldn’t matter. His angel was his, and he belonged to Aziraphale in return, and they had stuck a finger up at everything and everyone else. He had his happy ending. Regularly. It should all be just fine. He was a demon, Aziraphale was an angel, and they were fucking well in love thank you very much piss off goodbye.

(But it wasn’t okay, was it? Not if something like this could cause him to panic and drive off like he was frightened for his very existence. Not if he could turn his back on the one being in all of Creation who cared a single shit about how he felt. Not if he was too damned caught up in his own hate and pain and self-loathing to accept something like... whatever it was that was on offer.)

Oh, he was such an idiot. 

His cheeks were aching, his jaw so tense he could crack nuts by bouncing them off his face, and he hurt so deep inside that he could feel his lymph nodes and his capillaries and his nerve endings and—

FUCK.

Now he wasn’t even sure if Aziraphale would want to talk about it. Not if it was so unpleasant and distressing. Not if it meant Crowley ran off like a terrified puppy into the night. Why would he? He couldn’t enjoy that. Crowley surely didn’t. Ignoring it and writing it off as a bad decision like deep frying everything was the most sensible decision, culinary speaking. 

Crowley wasn’t made for it. And that would just have to be that.

***

Aziraphale hadn’t left. Crowley could sense the concern and affection before he opened the door. On the other side, his angel was waiting to – whatever they did next. And Crowley...

He...

The door opened, and he looked at the angel. All love and concern and worry and hope and fear. All of the universe’s emotions, bundled up into one slightly-stuffy form. And all of them directed towards him. 

It was unbearable. Unbearable to know that Aziraphale knew him. That he understood him. That he couldn’t conceal things, couldn’t lie, couldn’t pretend he wasn’t who he was. Things he could deny himself from acknowledging couldn’t be kept hidden in the angel’s gaze. 

And if he tried, he’d know it wasn’t true. He’d know he wasn’t being honest. And he’d forever be half-here, half-present. Half-real.

He snapped the sunglasses from his face, folding them in one hand. It was harder to keep his gaze, now. Harder to stand there, and be seen. He hunted for signs of regret, or any reason why he shouldn’t...

But all he saw was sincerity and hope and compassion. Things Crowley was certainly not due, but had anyway. He dropped to one knee, like a Knight before a King, and ducked his head to show his apology and acceptance. 

“M-may I speak?”

“You may.” Aziraphale sounded so damnably relieved. Crowley was not sure anyone being ‘dominant’ should be so openly worried or caring, but it wouldn’t be Aziraphale if he wasn’t.

“I’m – this isn’t... just... like wearing outfits. For me.”

“It isn’t for me, either.”

He’d worked that out. Crowley kept in position, as the weight of existence bore down on his shoulders, directed by an angel’s eyes. “My... issues aren’t... all with you.”

Understatement of eternity. Aziraphale could hardly be held responsible for God, or for Lucifer, or for any number of things in Crowley’s life. Or – for that matter – for Crowley.

“I know. And... I would still like to help you with them. As long as you remember, afterwards, that I didn’t cause them.”

“Will you be... angry with me if I... lose my temper?”

“I may be emotional. But I will not blame you, or think you shouldn’t. I would rather you didn’t, but if it is the only way you can work through things, then... it will be alright, I think.”

“...you’ll tell me if you can’t? If—“ he looked up again. “You’ll tell me if you need to stop. Even if I need to keep going?”

“Isn’t that supposed to be my question?” the angel chuckled. “But in answer: yes. If I don’t feel I can manage, then I will tell you. But only if you promise exactly the same thing.”

“...what...” He looked down again. “What if it makes you hate me?”

“Oh...” The pain was palpable, and he felt a hand under his chin, gently asking him to look up. “I could never hate you. Dislike you, at times. But I don’t need to like everything about you in order to love you. Indeed, that’s how I know I do.”

“Could... could we... not, tonight?” He was feeling weirdly fragile, and he just wanted to lick his wounds for a while. 

“Of course, my dear demon. Why don’t we watch a movie together, and unwind. I will even allow you to pick.”

***

Crowley was pretty sure Aziraphale was giving him space, rather than avoiding the issue. Which was nice, but also annoying. The whole point of giving up control was that – yes – you gave it up. And having to ask to do it meant you were deciding, and it ended up being a Catch 22 that went on interminably.

He did not want to have to start another argument to just get a good spanking. It seemed counter-productive. 

But how did you indicate you wanted it, without misbehaving to provoke punishment? How did you signal, without pouring sugar onto the kitchen counter and writing suggestive messages in the crystals with a wet finger? Did you just pull down your trousers and shove your ass in their face? (Which might end up with other, equally enjoyable activities.) Or did you have a pre-arranged flower you wore as a button-hole to indicate what kind of mood you were in?

He seethed about it all through Country File (damned baby ducklings and their moderate peril), and was about to turn and say, ‘Get on with it, then’, when his eyes met the angel’s. 

And it sort of... just... snapped into place. Whatever it was that passed for communication without words was seamless, and he slid from the couch and to his knees in a heartbeat. Shaking just from the gesture, from the admission and request and obedience combined. 

“Tell me you want this,” Aziraphale asked.

“Y-yeah. I... I do.”

The hand through his hair, combing it back from his face, gentle and loving. Soft and caring. Sharp and tugging, making him cry out in shock and want. His eyes rolled up into his skull as he whimpered, swaying to where he was tugged as if there were never any question that he might do otherwise.

“I am doing this because you want it. Because you need it. And because you deserve it.” His angel’s voice rang with such certainty, no question behind it. He meant it. 

Crowley nodded very slightly.

“I am doing this,” he continued, “...because _I_ want to give you these things. Because I want to see you at peace. And because I value the trust you place in me. I will not hurt you – not by choice. I will not hate you – no matter what you say, or need. And I will not leave you. Not ever.”

‘Ever’. Forever. Long times. And though they’d been together (in some sense) for longer than they hadn’t...

“Do you not believe me?”

Crowley knew he was supposed to be honest, but honest wasn’t nice. Not always. His mouth traced rivers long-dried, and his mind whirled through the responses he could say without being f—

“Answer me.” 

The two words didn’t need anger. Didn’t need force, or violence, or anything other than just Aziraphale behind them. It wasn’t the kind of control that demanded you obey. It was simply a request, one from someone who wanted you very much to be forthcoming and truthful with them. His tongue stalled over the half-lies, as he remembered he owed this being something better than everyone else.

“I believe you think you mean it. But I believe there’s – there’s things that could happen to change it.”

“Such as?”

“...God? Satan? Another Apocalypse? You... changing your mind?”

“Crowley.”

No anger, no disappointment, just... compassion. It hurt and it stung and it was like he imagined Holy Water would feel, and he squirmed in the hand still clutching his hair. 

“Crowley. I cannot speak for every possible action of beings more powerful than us. But I can reassure you, that if anything should part us, it would do so without my consent. I went to Hell for you, in your own body, nonetheless. I stood by you at the end of the world. _I will not_ let you go without a fight.”

“You might decide I’m not worth it.”

Fucking shitting titty bastard wank bollocks arse and twat. The words were out and they were not coming back. He’d have rather said anything else – anything. 

“I decided long, long ago. You are worth it. And I will tell you until you believe it. And I will let you kick at me until you believe it.”

No! No. He started to fight his way back to his feet, to get up – out – away – but two large, white wings encircled him and contained his thrashing. He panicked harder, grabbing at feathers, screaming in protest, needing to prove him _wrong_. 

Aziraphale couldn’t. Couldn’t. He was too Good and Crowley was the shit everyone thought he was. He hissed and bit and threw his whole strength into fighting off the angelic embrace, but he was down on his knees and weakened by the cocoon and – and – he...

He wanted it. He wanted the embrace to hold. He wanted to know Aziraphale really accepted him. That it wouldn’t be pulled away from him like Heaven, or Eden, or any number of things he’d lost. Those didn’t matter half as much as Aziraphale did, and he let the fear fully flow through him. Howling in imagined grief, braying for a love he didn’t think he would ever get to keep.

“Hush,” came the soft words, as his fighting wore out to shaking. “Hush, my dear heart. There is nothing in you that will stop me loving you.”

“I’ve – I’ve _done_ things.” Things he was supposed to be fine with. 

Demon. Demon. Didn’t want to go back to Heaven. Didn’t want to go back to Hell. Supposed to do those things. Enjoyed some of them. Didn’t enjoy others. It was a mess, and he was pretty sure that doing things and not really being sorry wasn’t being sorry at all. Not that he was! At all. 

(Okay. Some of them.)

“I can see the Good in you.”

Stupid. Traces of angel, or maybe just echoed bits of the real one. Enough camouflage to make Aziraphale like him enough not to turn him away. He snivelled, and shook his head.

“You want to be forgiven for being Good.”

That made him bark a laugh, and then choke it into horror as he realised there was some truth in it. He was caught in this awful trap where he didn’t feel he belonged anywhere. Tortured, one might say, by what he’d lost. And still not convinced he should have lost it anyway.

“I hate Her,” he snarled, his hands moving to scratch at his own thighs, instead of Aziraphale’s wings. He needed it to hurt, and he needed to hurt something, and he no longer wanted to hurt his angel.

“I know.”

“No! I hate Her! I don’t even know WHY She cast me out! And she had to go and – I can still remember it! And I can’t even just stop _caring_ and I tried and I **can’t** and I just want it to go away!”

Hands found his, and pulled them back, stopping him from hurting himself. He glared, and pulled, but he knew it was pointless. 

“I know.”

“No you don’t! You don’t. I fucking love you and I can’t shake the fear that you’re going to realise I’m hideous and leave. I fucking love you and I still don’t know what I did wrong, and if it’s all going to end up with Her laughing at me that I couldn’t possibly ever deserve you. And I hate – I hate myself but also I don’t and I’m terrified what happens when it all really stops and I don’t like me so why should you and if I let you see who I am then you will realise it’s all a fucking JOKE.”

More tugging, and he used all his strength to lunge upwards...

...only to find that physics bent and he was face-first down on their bed. Aziraphale was behind, above, his hips straddling the demon’s waist. His hands were stretched up and out – crucifyingly so – and his ankles bound to eagle him across the sheets. Hands smothered his, and a warm body lined above him, bearing him down. He wasn’t sure he had the power to fight Aziraphale – not head on – they’d never truly gone all out. He’d have been afraid of hurting the angel, more than of losing. 

And now he knew he’d lose. He knew he’d lose, because he could never, ever, truly hurt Aziraphale. His pulled punches, cut words, issues avoided. The way he’d have thrown himself in Holy Water, if they’d offered him that as the only way to keep his beloved safe. 

“What you feel for me, I feel for you,” Aziraphale reassured him, kissing the back of his neck. 

“’Zira...”

“I do. I do. And you know I do, and that’s why you’re so afraid. Because if I love you, then you have no reason not to love yourself.”

Aziraphale didn’t need to torture him. Or punish him. Or spank him. Or call him names. He didn’t need to flay him apart to mould him back together again. Crowley did all that work for him, though he hid it where he thought no one saw. He did it first, so that no one could have hurt him. No one had that power over him, not after She broke him. If he already hated himself, if he already had nothing to lose, then he couldn’t ever be hurt again.

Except this damned feathery asshole currently lying on top of him, smothering him, making him admit it. He gave him just enough hope for it to burn what was left of his Grace into furious flames. Gave him something – someone – he cared about, more than he cared about himself. Something worth loving, and something worth losing, and something... worth... worth risking everything for. 

He wasn’t sure he could love himself. It was much, much too difficult. He keened in low protest and scraped at that tiny part of himself that wouldn’t let him go. 

“Angel,” he begged, not sure what he could possibly ask for. 

“You aren’t perfect. But you are, to me.” 

If being fucked would make it go, make it stop, make everything start again... Crowley would have begged for that. If being beaten until his skin was red and blistered would do it. If being locked up in complete isolation (and that was the least favourable of his ideas so far) would make things right... he’d have begged until his tongue fell out.

But he didn’t know what would do it, or why would he be here, right now?

He was no longer fighting to get free, but he knew something hadn’t quite – something was still – he was so close, so close. He just needed it. Whatever it was. He needed that symbol, that kick, that push.

Please. Please, please, please, please. His chest heaved awkwardly, and his head was dizzy from the highs and lows. He needed it to stop. He needed it to STOP.

What was wrong with him, that he couldn’t get there? What was broken inside? Why couldn’t he let Aziraphale in that last little place in his heart? Why was he so incapable of being here, truly, utterly, completely? Why couldn’t he trust him to take full control?

“A-angel?”

“Do you trust me?”

He thought so. He did, yes? But he was – he – “Yes.”

Aziraphale had mentioned it, in passing. The ability demons had, which it turned out he did, too. He’d been wistfully joking at the time, but Crowley felt the scratch at the back of his mind. He’d already given permission – not that it was really needed – and then he felt a strange cold heat that suffused him from everywhere and nowhere. 

“Angel?”

“Let yourself feel my love,” Aziraphale cooed, stretching his sense of self from somewhere above to somewhere inside. 

It was odd. The angel hadn’t left his own body, but his essence, his Grace, rushed against whatever Crowley was, deep beneath the surface. It was more intimate than being fucked, more... beautiful. Raw. The Heaven in his angel stinging like he was standing just above the sun itself. Heaven from his memories, Aziraphale all over. Without the edges to keep him back, without the faces with their sometimes-lies... a wash of Love he’d sensed glimpses of, but looked away before it blinded him. 

His angel. His angel. Loving him so utterly, mingled in with frustration and amusement and pity and regret and hope. But no hate. No hate. He was crying, covered inside and out, letting those locks unhinge and allowing Aziraphale into the darker places he hated so much.

“Nothing you can do will make me hate you, make me leave you. Let me show you...”

Something hidden, guarded, cherished. A shock of emotion that was so overwhelming he nearly blacked out when Aziraphale nudged it. 

“...huh?”

“That’s how you feel about me.”

Well. Yes. Crowley gulped. It was a little embarrassing.

“No creature capable of this... this emotion... is ever truly lost. I can’t speak for all Her actions, but I – I can say that you aren’t beyond Love. It’s how... how honest this is, that lets me know you’re the person I thought you were.”

He was confused, and exhausted, and bits of him were being prodded that oughtn’t have been seen at all. “What?”

“You can love me. You can _love_.”

“S-sssso?”

“You aren’t lost, my dear. Not completely.” Soft kisses rained down on his neck, soothing, and the achingly bright sensation was pressed against another. He whimpered in fear as he sensed the angel’s being so close to him.

“What you feel for me, it’s as I feel for you. We are bonded, my love. And if you can’t love yourself just now, then we shall have to content ourselves with you loving me, and I loving you.” 

Crowley could hardly bear to feel the glowing light, even though it was all he wanted. All he’d ever wanted. To be worthy of his angel, to be loved properly. He sniffled and choked on his breath, raptured and tortured in equal measure. It hurt. It stung. And it soothed. His breathing evened out, and he felt he could tolerate the touches for longer each time. He wasn’t sure if Aziraphale was physically – rudimentarily – inside him, but it went deeper than that. He stopped resisting, trusting that he wouldn’t burn him up, wouldn’t find anything he didn’t know, wouldn’t... wouldn’t stop. 

Aziraphale did love him. And fucked up thing that he was, it was the most torturous, terrifying thing he could imagine. Being here, prone beneath his angel. Letting him so deep inside he could feel his fear. Letting him know how he could destroy him utterly, with just one act. One snap. One rejection. 

Crowley surrendered, and felt the blanketing love ease in wherever he let go. It was so intense that he lost track of time and space, floating even as he was tied down. At some point, the cuffs were released, and he was just being rocked and kissed. Wings and fingers and kisses that he was too out of it to reciprocate, but he knew his angel wouldn’t mind. It was a gift, this. A gift of happiness, contentment, and release. 

Some hours later – or years – or minutes – he looked lazily up at Aziraphale, basking in the smile he could see.

“H-hey.”

“Are you alright, my dear?”

Some distant, sarcastic voice wanted to complain about the lack of spanking. Or fucking. Or make some glib comment to show he was ‘himself’. Dissipate the moment. Make things easier. 

But he didn’t want to let go of this spaced-out bliss. Instead, he rubbed his cheek against his angel’s neck, and hummed in low approval.

“We can do that again.”

The worriedly tight squeeze and soft caw of approval told him his lover wanted that, too. And that he’d said the right thing. And that he’d been worrying just as much as Crowley had. 

“It’s gon’ be okay,” Crowley drawled, patting his angel’s knee. “You got me. I got you. T’gether we’re almost one good angel.”

Aziraphale laughed. “I’d rather we be two, imperfect us-es.”

“Mmmm. More kisses.”

“If your Highness insists...” He started to pepper them all over Crowley’s face again.

Yes. He would insist. And maybe wiggle his butt for spankings, too. It was okay, because Aziraphale loved him, and that meant he could be just enough of a bastard himself.

**Author's Note:**

> Bonus points if you know why it's titled that.
> 
> Also very likely there will be more.


End file.
